Realms of infamy a-2

by Ed Greenwood

  “Mirrortor, I am ready to leave now,” he called.

  Nothing.

  Had he come into this room from the entrance to his left? Yes, that must be it-the door to his left. Gathering his bag over one shoulder, he walked out into a familiar hallway. Or was it familiar? Fat, flickering candles in rusted holders still cast their dim light against the walls. But this could be any hall in the temple. These dirty gray stone walls probably stretched out through the entire underground.

  Chane’s dilemma fled his mind as something painfully cold touched his arm. He jumped a pace down the corridor.

  “Who’s there?”

  The hall lay empty. But then Chane felt invisible icy fingers again, trying to grip his shoulder. Burning cold drained his strength, and he scrambled backward, jerking the books along the ground. Chane had always thought himself above such base emotions as fear, but for the first time in his memory, he was afraid.

  Dragging the books, he ran, harsh breaths coming quickly. At the hall’s end he was forced to choose between two stairwells, one going up, one going down. Perhaps I’ve outrun the… thing, he thought. But when he glanced behind him, a horrified gasp escaped his lips.

  Grayish white shapes were slowly forming, taking shape. To his despair, two separate faces and bodies materialized into the hazy outlines of human form. They had teeth. Their hollow eyes were hungry.

  Wraiths.

  “Mirrortor!” Chane called. “Come guide me out. I am ready to leave.”

  A high-pitched keening from one of the wraiths answered him. The other hissed in hatred and floated forward at an impossible speed.

  Chane bolted up the right stairwell. He was usually a swift runner but the weight of the books slowed him. He had no silver. No spells. Nothing to fight the undead.

  “Mirrortor, you little wretch,” Chane hissed. “Simply cutting your throat will be too kind…”

  A cold jerk on Chane’s collar made him lose his footing. The wraith was right behind him, fighting for a hold on his tunic. He knew if the creature got a solid grip on his flesh, its very touch could kill him. He swung out desperately with the books. Perhaps the thing was corporeal enough to be swatted away.

  To his joy, the thing released him. To his sorrow, his fingers lost their grip on the bag, and it flew out of his hands. He steeled himself for another attack… which did not come. The other wraith now moved into view as well. Yet they both ignored him and positioned themselves over the bag, floating in the narrow stone corridor above his treasure, hissing and keening in agitation.

  “Guardians?” he asked sardonically, knowing they couldn’t answer. “If you think I’m going to let a pair of phantoms take those books away, you are sorely mistaken.”

  But the pain in Chane’s shoulder had spread to his elbow. The fingers of his left hand wouldn’t close. He was injured, and he needed something to fight with. No amount of wit and charm would affect his phantasmal opponents. One of them looked up at him and spit out meaningless sounds, its face twisting and contorting. The thing appeared almost disappointed that he had dropped the books.

  “Oghma, help me,” Chane whispered, grasping the cord of his holy symbol. He drew it into view, confident his god would assist him. But the second wraith only spat strange sounds like the first.

  A wave of despair washed over the priest. Was this some sort of test? Was Oghma toying with him to see how well he might fare on his own? If so, he had to find another weapon.

  With his good hand, he searched his pockets. There had to be something. His dagger was steel-useless. Then he found his coin purse. Coins? Ripping off his belt, he dumped the contents onto a step and smiled. Silver coins. Six of them.

  He took a step toward the writhing, angry creatures. “Time for me to leave now. We must do this again sometime.”

  Gathering all six coins, he pitched them as hard as he could, catching one wraith with four, the other with two. Chane heard faint, liquid sounds of metal splashing through ectoplasm. At any other moment, he would have stopped to congratulate himself on not having wasted any of his tiny weapons. But this was not the time. Both creatures screamed in pain and confusion when the hated silver passed through them. Chane lunged forward, clutched the bag tightly, and retreated back up the stairs.

  He expected to come out somewhere near the corridor that led to the curving stairway up. Instead, he found himself in a another small, square room filled with dusty stacked books. Four exits marked the walls. Am I back where I started? he thought. At the same instant, a hateful keening filled his ears.

  A labyrinth!

  That wretched gnome. Back-the way out has to be back the way I came. No, that was impossible; the wraiths were coming from behind. All loremasters were taught survival skills in regard to mazes and labyrinths. Chane let his mind seek out those half-forgotten lessons. Left. Always turn left. Never panic or you will be lost.

  He leapt into action, running always upward and to the left. He concentrated on what Mirrortor’s throat would feel like as his windpipe cracked. The keening grew closer.

  Then it stopped. So did Chane.

  Where are they? he groaned inwardly. Have they given up? No, that would be too easy. More likely they’re trying to trick me into slowing down.

  Chane broke into a jog. Each time he fell out of a flight of stairs into a room or a corridor, he turned left and scrambled up the next staircase. The maze had to empty out somewhere aboveground, sooner or later. Hope soothed his trembling heart when he realized how sensible he was. Nothing could stop him now. Then the rage-filled keening began again.

  Only this time it came from ahead of him.

  How could they have gotten in front of me? Fear and uncertainty crawled back into his spine. This could not be the end of so perfect a priest, to die like a rat in some mad gnome’s maze! Standing dead center in a narrow corridor, Chane looked at the upward-bound stairwell about ten paces ahead. There were no doorways in the hall behind him except for the one to the stairway at the end. He was loathe to turn back; moving up and left seemed to be the only viable plan.

  Wailing, the first wraith boiled out of the entryway and came straight toward him. In the dim torchlight glowing off the wall, he could make out its hideous expression of both insane hunger and fierce protection. He knew it could smell his warm blood and longed to drain him of life.

  With no other choice, he threw the bag forward. It landed a few paces from the bottom step.

  “Here, take it,” he said in angry, bitter defeat. ‘Take your master’s precious books, but you won’t have me.”

  The creature stopped over the books and glared at the loremaster as though, for an instant, the sacrifice did not matter. But the undead did not leave its post; it continued hissing and spitting over Chane’s discarded treasure.

  The pain in his left arm had now spread into his shoulder. Going back down lower into the labyrinth would probably mean death. He panted to catch his breath.

  “Get out of the way,” he said.

  Pulling his silver holy symbol over his head, Chane felt a stab of regret. Oghma would understand. The situation had grown desperate. Drawing his hand back as if to throw, he repeated, “Get out of my way.”

  The wraith raged and keened. But as Chane hurled the symbol, the thing dodged to avoid the blessed metal, leaving just enough room for Chane to slip past into the stone stairwell. He hoped the other one had called off the chase and disappeared. But the guardians were no longer his main concern. His left arm was paralyzed, and thirst made breathing painful. His lips were beginning to dry out from the lengthy chase.

  What a fool. What an absolute fool he had been, thinking he could waltz into a temple of Oghma, murder its overseer, take its treasures, and then just stroll back out again. He’d brought no real weapons. No water. No food. King of loremasters indeed. If he didn’t find an exit soon, he would be king of skeletons.

  The stairs and corridors stretched on endlessly. Chane shivered and sweated at the same time. After a while it seemed he tra
veled in circles and the rooms began to look the same. Or perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps he only imagined they did. How far had he traveled? It seemed like miles, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t merely a floor or two. Icy discomfort in his shoulder was turning into agony. His teeth chattered. His legs ached. Finally he staggered against a stone wall. Whimpering, he slipped to the floor, chin resting on his knees.

  “I’ve lost,” he whispered through parched lips. “It’s over.”

  “Getting tired, son?” a cheery voiced asked.

  Chane’s head jerked up to see Mirrortor in the room with him, still in his ridiculous purple dressing gown. The elven girl at his side was rapidly writing on her parchment.

  “Am I close to the surface then?” Chane rasped.

  “Close?” the gnome answered. “Well, that would depend on your perspective.”

  Wretch, Chane thought, but instead he said, “If you’ve come to hear me beg for help, you may as well leave. I’d sooner die than ask you about tomorrow’s weather.”

  “Hear you beg?” Mirrortor said. “Oh, by Oghma’s pen, no. We came to guide you out. There must be something sensible in that over-inflated head of yours or you wouldn’t be breathing. You are intelligent enough to value your life over the power you lust after. That must count for something.”

  Chane stared at him. “You’re guiding me out?”

  “Yes, of course. But I warn you, those creatures are here to guard over more than just books.”

  “I’m too tired to hurt anyone. Get me out of here.”

  “You’ve come all this way. I think you ought to have something for your trouble.” Mirrortor held out a clothbound, dark green book.

  Chane looked at it suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “Something I put to pen myself a few years ago. It is the recent history of Rysheos before the coming of Lord Teelo, an account of the wars of the noble families. Distasteful era. Something they will wish to avoid again. Take this book, Loremaster Chane. Go to Rysheos and teach this.”

  Chane’s mouth tightened in disgust. “That is nothing! Maybe a few rare details, but there is not a tale in that book any common street peasant wouldn’t already know. What wonders can be found in such easily attained lore?”

  The gnome smiled slightly. “The kind that matter. The lore we live and breathe and remember. Stories that can teach us to avoid folly.”

  Mirrortor turned and motioned the girl forward. Chane gazed into her serious face as she knelt down and revealed to him the title of her work: The Tale of Chane Troiban, the Twilight Hall Priest Who Got Lost in the Labyrinth ofBransul-dyn Mirrortor.

  Chane looked up, the truth of it finally dawning. Lore was not only the ancient and unknown. It was created with each passing moment. He was now part of the web of legend, part of the web of lore, ever changing, always spinning.

  Reaching out slowly, he took the green book from Mirrortor. “Yes, I will go to Rysheos. I will teach this lore.”

  The gnome smiled wryly. “Come then. Your arm will heal in a tenday or two. Now it is time to leave. I should have been asleep hours ago.”

  Chane stood and followed his companions, paying little attention to which hallway they chose. Soon he would be out in the fresh air, free from this labyrinth. His mind churned with Mirrortor’s words. Perhaps he could do more for his students by teaching them recent history, teaching them ways to avoid bloodshed and chaos.

  Picturing himself in an ivory robe, standing before a crowd of eager listeners, he anticipated the reverence that might be given to such an unselfish scholar-a humble loremaster, dedicated to his calling. He envisioned the awestruck faces of his followers as he taught the lore of recent tales. Naturally his handsome countenance would impress them, but his wisdom would impress them even more.

  He was almost to the main entryway when a sudden realization came unbidden to his mind. Lord Teelo might be very grateful to a loremaster who knew more details of Rysheos’s history than any other priest on the continent. Such a priest would be rewarded and valued.

  Perhaps…

  Raven’s Egg

  Elaine Bergstrom

  Soon I, Lord Sharven of Espar, shall attempt a most daring end to all my woes. I will not speak too plainly of my plans here; the purpose of this account is to justify my act, not to forewarn others what it might be. I wish I could be more blunt but, though I am a young man, my inheritance is vast. Because of my wealth, I have many enemies and many paid spies throughout my house. I see how they whisper in private, plotting against me as they go about their work. If I had proof of their treachery, I would kill them all. As it is, I must abide them.

  Even Atera, my beloved wife, has turned against me. I cannot bear to cause her pain, so I lied and told her that there have been threats against us and placed her under guard in her chambers. She has requested no visitors save me and her aged physician, the wizard Raven of Saerloon.

  Saerloon! Ah, the sound of that name-exotic, dangerous, calling to me even now. Saerloon-the place where I made my fortune. Saerloon-the place where I found my most precious possession: my wife.

  My older brother had been sent to that distant city in Sembia by my father and the nobles of our humble town to forge a trade alliance with the merchants there. I’d always had a wanderlust that set me apart from my stoic friends in Espar and so asked to go along. I had expected father to refuse; he agreed readily. I rejoiced, but during the long journey east, I began to understand his indulgence toward me all too well. Gwendh, my brother, was to inherit the family estate. I could manage one of our smaller holdings, but would always be dependent on his charity unless I made a fortune of my own. If I did not, I was expendable.

  As we rode into the city, I saw its wealth and its poverty Pickpockets stole almost openly from rich merchants in the crowded streets, ignoring the example of less skillful thieves, whose rotting bodies hung from the city walls to feed the crows. Nobles sported knives and swords with jeweled hilts, and even the grimiest street urchin carried a simple blade. Indeed, our first stop was to purchase daggers and swords. It galled me that Gwendh had to make the purchase for me.

  I said as much as we sat in the back of a dark, smoky tavern, washing down spicy sausages with the golden local ale. “No matter. I’ll make my fortune soon enough in a city such as this,” I commented.

  “Soon enough,” Gwendh echoed and chuckled, a sound I knew too well.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What have you been plotting?”

  “Not me, Brother. Father has. He wants you to take a wife here in Saerloon.”

  “A wife!” I stared at the tavern wenches, as drunk and foul mouthed as the patrons. “Where will I find a wife in a place such as this?”

  “Father’s already found her,” Gwendh said, then covered his ears in anticipation of my angry explosion.

  Shock stole all thoughts, all words I might have said.

  “Father says that her dowry is huge,” Gwendh added.

  “The greater the dowry, the uglier the bride,” I reminded him, and we laughed together.

  “You’ll get to judge her soon enough,” Gwendh said. “You’re meeting her tonight.”

  “And if I despise her?”

  “Her father hasn’t announced the match, more for her sake than yours. She may despise you just as easily as you might her, you know.”

  I doubted that, but nonetheless I was thankful when Gwendh bought us each a bath. We changed into our best clothes and went to meet my arranged bride.

  The house was three times the size of our family’s home in Espar, and its grounds smelled as exotic as they looked. The iron fence around the house and gardens was delicately wrought with sharp points at the top, as much for beauty as to keep out intruders. The ironwork pattern repeated in the railings of the balconies and in the tall, thin spires of the house. A castle fit for faeries, I thought.

  Its interior did nothing to dispel that whimsical idea. The high, arched doorway opened into a sun-drenched courtyard where pots of tall, lacy fern
s shaded cages of songbirds and a bubbling fountain. A servant dressed in white and with a tall turban on his head separated Gwendh and me. Gwendh would go to speak to the father. I would remain in the courtyard.

  “My mistress will be here soon,” the servant said as he left me. I sat beside the fountain and watched the slow ripples move across the water’s surface, hoping their languid motion would still the beating of my heart.

  She came alone, walking toward me from the dark house, her flowing skirts beating against her legs. I rejoiced at her lithe form, her delicate hands. From her shy stance, with her eyes fixed on a spot somewhere near the center of my chest, I saw that she was more flustered than I by this arrangement. It occurred to me that I had also overlooked one important detail. “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Atera,” she replied. “You might have asked your brother.” She glanced up at me for a moment. Her slanted eyes were an incredible shade of emerald green that harmonized beautifully with her honey-colored hair.

  “I’m sorry.” I took her hands. Her nails were painted a soft pink, the color of seashells. “Are all noble women in Saerloon so demure?”

  She smiled and looked up again. “Just me,” she said.

  “What are the courting customs here?”

  She shrugged. “They’re not important.”

  “Sit beside me,” I said.

  She did as I asked. During the rest of our hour together, she relaxed a bit. I thought her far more beautiful than any of the round-cheeked girls in Espar, and I wondered how her father could give her up to a man he did not know.

  But in the tendays before our wedding, I came to understand his decision. Atera had a sensitive temperament better suited to the tranquility of Espar than the constant danger of Saerloon. On our rare rides through the city, she became anxious in the crowded streets that appealed so much to me. She also gave all her coins to the crafty urchins who, dodging my discreet kicks, managed to attract her attention. Before we wed, I promised her that we would settle in my father’s country. I did not say precisely when.